MR. WYNDHAM, of whose family I am about to relate some Anecdotes, was an eminent mer­chant. He married an amiable woman, by whom he had four children. Their residence, dur­ing the winter, was in one of the best streets in the city of London, and in the summer months, at his fine estate in the country, on which he had built an elegant house, and where the [Page 10] riches his industry, and that of his father, had gained, were part­ly employed in decorating his [...]rounds, and partly distributed with a liberal hand among the neighbouring poor. But it is not of Mr. Wyndham only I mean to speak, though his bene­volence, his probity, and vari­ous virtues, might well employ a more able historian than my­self. It is true, he will sometimes appear to great advantage in the following pages: but since I ad­dress myself to a yout [...] class of readers, it is pro [...]a [...]e they will be more interested in what respects his children. It is their dispositions, their co [...]duct, their manners, I mean to descri [...]e, and Mr. Wyndham will appear in a more amiable light as their fa­ther than any other. As a good mother too, Mrs. Wyndham will, [Page 11] I doubt not, excite many grate­ful comparisons in my young friends, who will read in her cha­racter those virtues which have been exerted by their own mo­thers; and not one sentiment of regret will, I hope, be awaken­ed by a review of her actions, except in that feeling youthful bosom, which mourns the loss of an indulgent parent.

Mr. Wyndham's eldest child was a daughter, named Emily. She was, at the time when this history commences, just turned of fourteen, and at that age gave promise of every amiable and virtuous quality; I say gave pro­mise, because at that time of life, the character cannot be decided. Neither had she been injudicious­ly brought forward according to the fashion of the times, which, hastening the summer of life, [Page 12] shortens the spring, and conse­quently denies a proper time for the unfolding of the s [...]lken bud, and forces an immature fruit, neither fair to the sight, nor pleasing to the taste. This re­flection, excited by my subject, may, I hope, be excused; for, should my young readers pass it over as unimportant now, it may hereafter recur to their memory, as neither untrue nor uninter­esting.

Emily, with a form of the most delicate order, had been accus­tomed so early to habits of in­dustry and exercise, that her frame had acquired a strength which nature had denied, and her countenance a bloom, which en­livened it with the most graceful vivacity. She was not a beauty, but she was perfectly agreeable. Her healthy appearance, her in­telligent [Page 13] and modest smile, the ingen [...]ious candour that shone in her eyes, gave he [...] charms infi­nitely preferable to a cold regu­larity of features, because they were graces which rose from the heart, and could not have ex­isted without a corresponding sweetness of disposition. In the mild countenance and elegant manners of Emily, you might read the excellence of her tem­per, and the intelligence of her soul. In her eyes, as in a mir­ror, you saw reflected every mo­tion of her heart: she was with­out disguise; and her natural graces were infinitely preferable to any which art and affectation could have taught her. But her character will reveal itself; and my young readers, tho' charm­ed with Emily, may be impatient to hear more of her brother [Page 14] and sisters. Mrs. Wyndham's second child was a son, near twelve years of age. He was named Arthur, and he deserved equally with Emily the affection of his parents. He was natural­ly of a bold, impetuous disposi­tion, which they had taken the utmost pains to keep within due bounds, and had so far succeed­ed, that, except in a very few instances, his behaviour was per­fectly becoming. Sometimes, in­deed, his natural impatience sub­jected him to inconvenience; but that Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham did not much regret, because it served to convince him how right they were, when they warned him against yielding to the ea­gerness of his temper. He had an excellent sense, great tender­ness of heart, and a most [...]c­tionate disposition, which show­ed [Page 15] itself to peculiar advantage [...] behaviour to his sisters.—To the second of them, he was [...] more mindful than to the other. Alas! [...]he most needed h [...]s attention. She was nine years old. Her name was Helen; and when she was about a year old, [...] had the misfortune of [...] [...]r sight by a violent cold, so that she was now entirely blind; her [...] dark e [...]es turned mournfully round without re­ceiving a single ray of light.—She had become blind so young, that she had no idea of the ob­jects [...] her: she knew not what was meant by the sun, the [...] or any thing that was [...] of [...] beautiful; and what [...] more affected her tender heart, [...]he knew not the cou [...]te­n [...] [...] of her father and mother! What grief to them was this sad [Page 16] affliction! with what anguish did they perceive the impossibility of giving her equal advantages of education with their other chil­dren! with what ardour did they pray for the restoration of her sight.

The youngest child was also a girl. She was about seven years old, and was named Maria. She was very pretty, very gentle, and sweet in her temper, and entire­ly the favourite of all the fami­ly. Thus would Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham have been completely happy in their children, but for the misfortune of poor Helen; for which, however, they were partly consoled, by the tender­ness and compassion it excited in her brother and sisters. At the time I have chosen for the com­mencement of these Anecdotes, Mr. Wyndham's family had just [Page 17] passed the winter in London, and were preparing for their remove to Belle-Ville, their seat in the country. The children were all extremely rejoiced and delighted with the thoughts of so pleasing an exchange. They were all bu­sily employed in packing up their cloaths, except Helen, who sat on a window seat in the nursery, attending to their conversation.

Emily, sha'n't you be very glad to see your birds again?

Yes indeed, brother: I hope the hard winter has destroyed none of them. I charged Jenny to throw the crumbs into the fil­bert-tree-walk; and I hope we shall find it well stocked with as many little pensioners as usual. [Page 18] But I have a much greater plea­sure in expectation.

What is that, Emily?

Can you not guess, Arthur?

Oh, I'll be hang'd if you don't mean seeing little Charlotte Ne­ville!

But there can be no occasion for your saying you'd be hang'd, brother, even if you were wrong in your guess.

I'm glad you told him of that ugly saying, sister, I don't like to hear him use it.

If I like it, that's enough; you need not trouble yourselves to correct my language.

But I say, Arthur, that Papa does not choose you should use those words.

Well, then, Papa can tell me of it without your assistance.

But not—

Hush, my dear Helen. Arthur don't be angry. Come, what were we talking of?

Oh, of Charlotte Neville;—and I shall be very glad to see [Page 20] her too. I shall then show her my new doll, and this pretty coach Mr. Jones gave me, and this new book—look, what nice pictures there are in it— "This is the house that Jack built."—Who was Jack, sister?

How her little tongue runs.

But, Emily, to ask you rather a more important question than Maria's, do you know how Mrs. Neville is?

Ah, Mamma's last letter says, she is very ill indeed.

And is not Mamma very sor­ry?

Certainly, for you know they have always loved each other. To lose Mrs. Neville, would be the same thing to Mamma, as it would be to Helen if I were to die; they have always loved like sisters.

To die! I don't understand that; I never could have thought of it!

Poor thing, how she affects me! She means, she can have no idea of it. Alas! how many ideas m [...]st she want in consequence of her blindness!

But, Emily, you don't answer me. Tell me, [...] what it is to [...] ▪

You ask too hard a question for me to answer, my dear Helen; I can only tell you, that when a person dies, they have no longer any sense: they seem as if they were asleep, except that they do not breathe, and they wake no more.

I do not quite understand;—but I know enough to be sure, that it cannot be the same thing to Mamma, if Mrs. Neville was to die, as it would be to me if you died; for if you were always asleep, you could not lead me a­bout—you could not tell me such amusing stories. Now Mamma can walk by herself, and read stories, and what you call work. I can do none of all this. Oh, it is quite another thing!

Don't talk so, my dear Helen; you make us all sad.

And Emily is crying.

Where, where is she? lead me to her, Maria.

I will come to you, my dear sister.—

Emily then ran to her, embrac­ed her, and here the conversa­tion ceased for that time: the next morning they all set off for Belle-Ville, which they reached in the evening, and were too much tired to stir from the house that night. The next morning they rose very early: the three girls [Page 24] were soon dressed; and then they rapped at Arthur's door, which he opened, and they all went down together. Arthur, impa­tient and eager, in a few min­utes found himself several yards before her sisters. He was close­ly followed by little Maria, who [...]kipped from place to place like a young bird, and made many thousand exclamations about flowers and trees. Emily, with Helen leaning on her arm, con­tinued to walk more slowly on the terrace, which commanded a beautiful view, and where they held the following conversation:

I feel the air very warm and and pleasant; and how sweetly the birds sing.

'Tis a glorious morning; the [Page 25] spring returns in all its beauty, and the birds enjoy the young leaves.

So, Arthur and Maria are run away! I no longer hear their voices; and you, my dear Emily, how good you are to remain with me. If you will lead me to a bench, I will set down, and you may run also.

No, my dear, I feel no incli­nation to do so.

That is so good! You say so, because you would not have me feel sorry for keeping you here.—Yes, yes, I understand that; and I ought never to feel un­happy, since I have such kind re­lations. [Page 26] But, Emily, you said just now, it is a glorious morning; why cannot I have any notion of a glorious morning? You talk of the sun, you say how bright he shines: why does he shine, as you call it, in vain only for me? I cannot help sighing when I think of it!

It makes me sigh too, my dear girl; it makes me as sad as it does you. But do not say the sun shines in vain for you: 'tis true, you cannot see him; but it is by his assistance the air is warmed and purified, that the birds are enlivened and caused to sing; that these flowers which you smell, are produced: thus, then, he shines not in vain even for you.

That is true; I ought not to be unhappy. But there are so many things I do not understand, so many words which have no meaning to me—The other day when you le [...]t the room, Mr. Thomson said to Mamma, "Miss Wyndham grows very handsome—she is charming." No, Sir, Mamma said, she is not very handsome, but she is a very good girl. What did he mean by handsome? and why did Mamma say you were not so?

Mamma was in the right: he said so because he thought she would be pleased with it.

But how is that? Would Mam­ma be pleased with you for being [Page 28] handsome? why then are you not?

No, Mamma is too just; she would not love me the better for being handsome; only foolish people are pleased with that.

Ah, then, Mr. Thomson I guess is not very wise to take Mamma for a foolish person!—But how is it you cannot be handsome?

My dear, I can no more make myself handsome, than you can make yourself see. To be hand­some, we must have regular [...]ea­tures, a good complexion, and a [...]ine shape. It is only God who can give these. They are given to many persons; but these are [Page 29] not always the most happy. They frequently become vain or proud with their beauty; they attend to nothing but its improvement; they learn nothing but how to dress themselves; they are idle, frivolous, and useless: while children, they are inattentive to their parents; when parents, they are careless of their chil­dren. These are my mother's ideas, almost her words. But this picture is not universal; some people render beauty more pleasing by good sense, by accom­plishments, and by virtue.

I understand you in part; but I can have no notion of beauty.

Smell this flower, you can re­ceive pleasure from its scent.

Yes, I can; it is delightful.

That bird—do you not like to hear him sing?

Yes, surely.

Well, then, the eye has sen­sations something like these; when it sees any thing beautiful, it receives the same pleasure which you have in a pleasant scent, or an agreeable sound.

You have given me a very good notion of it, at least I think so. If ever it should please God to give me my [...]ight, I will tell you whether you had ever before giv­en me any idea of its advantages.

[Page 31] She pronounced these wo [...]ds in so a [...]e [...]ing a to [...]e, that Emily could not help shedding tears; and Helen, softe [...]ed by their con­versation, w [...]pt also. At that in­sta [...]t they were joined by Arthur and Maria; they had run them­selves out of breath, and were both laughing; but their mirth was changed in an instant into gravity, when they saw the me­lancholy of their sisters.

What, you have been crying because we ran away from you; is not that it? Well, then, be comforted, you shall run too; I will lead Helen.

Hold your peace, simpleton; would they cry because we left them? No, no, we only disturb them!

How! why do you think so?

Because we are such chatter-pies, and you are so grave and so good. Come, what is all this about? Have you been weeping over the lamentable tale of Blue Beard, or the melancholy history of Cinderilla?

What nonsense is that you are talking?

But you laugh—Well, that is all I wanted, so my nonsense has succeeded; and Helen laughs too, that is right. Do you know it is almost breakfast time? I fancy we shal [...] be expected. Come, He­len, lean on me; Emily, take the [Page 33] other arm. Run before, little kitten, and tell them we are coming in grand procession.

Arthur makes me laugh, he is so droll.

They then went into the house, and after breakfast was over, the children gave an account of their morning ramble. Helen was gone out of the room, and Emily remained silent. Mrs. Wyndham observing this, asked her how she found her birds and bees?

I did not see them, Ma'am.

How happened that, my dear?

I was walking on the terrace [Page 34] with Helen, Ma'am, and she did not seem disposed to run to the filbert-tree-walk, it was so far, and we rose later than usual.

What, then you were the only one with Helen: Arthur and Ma­ria had run away; was it not so?

Yes, Ma'am, but—

Nay, my dear, I shall not speak of this as a serious matter; I dare say their vol [...]tile spirits only were the cause of their in­attention. They should, how­ever, have considered that you, who are particularly fond of the birds and bees, no doubt wi [...]ed to see them as much as they could; they ought, therefore, to have [Page 35] offered their assistance to Helen. Had you been as inconsiderate, the poor child would have been alone.

But, indeed, Ma'am, I thought Emily and Helen would have followed us.

Yes, I am sure you did, Ar­thur; and so we should, had we not insensibly engaged in an in­teresting conversation, which pleased me better than seeing my birds; therefore, pray, Ma'am, do not be displeased with my brother and sister.

You are too good to us, Emily. As to Maria, she is excus [...]able, as being a child; but I ought to [Page 36] have known better. I said, in­deed, I thought you would have followed us; but the real truth is, I believe, that I did not think any thing about it.

That is right, Arthur; I like this candid avowal.

'Tis a thousand times better than any excuse. Let no more be said on the subject, except that I give you a general caution to im­itate the attention of Emily to Helen. Restrain, my dears, those lively spirits, which I delight to see, when they do not interfere with her enjoyments. Poor thing, she is blind! and is thereby cir­cumscribed in her pleasures: they all depend on our attention; and let me intreat you in this, as in [Page 37] all other circumstances, to do as you would be done by.

At the words, "Poor thing, she is blind," and the pathetic manner in which Mrs. Wynd­ham pronounced them, the tears started into the eyes of Emily and Arthur, they each kissed a hand of their mother, and she uttered the promise their hearts made her, never to neglect the helpless object of their cares.—Helen just then returned, and they entered immediately on the employment of the morning.—Emily and Maria worked, while Arthur read aloud; and Helen, who by great attention had been taught to knot, employed her­self with that, and listened to her brother. He then withdrew to take his Latin and other les­sons with his father. Emily then [Page 38] took a book, and afterwards Maria; then Miss Wyndham practised for an hour on the harp­sichord, to which Helen listened with great delight: she was ex­cessively fond of music, had an agreeable voice, and could sing several songs. While they em­ployed themselves thus, Maria wrote with her Mamma. The children were then dressed, and Mrs. Wyndham ordered the car­riage, and with her three daugh­ters set out for an airing. She bade the coachman drive to Mrs. Neville's, whom she was imp [...] ­tient to see, as the children were to embrace their little play-fel­low, for whom they had brought several toys from London.

When the coach stopped at Mrs. Neville's door, little Char­lotte came running out, and in an instant the young Wyndham's [Page 39] were out of the coach, they ea­gerly embraced her.—"Oh, I am so glad to see you," exclaim­ed Charlotte: ‘Mamma said she thought you would call to­day.—How is your Mam­ma to-day, my dear?’ said Mrs. Wyndham. ‘Oh, very poorly indeed,’ the little girl replied; ‘she is very weak too, and now she cannot walk with me at all!’—Mrs. Wyndham sighed deeply, and taking little Charlotte by the hand, was led by her into the parlour, where they found Mrs. Neville. Mrs. Wyndham embraced her with that cordiality which their long friendship demanded.—Tears started into the eyes of each.—Mrs. Neville's arose from the satisfaction she felt in seeing her friend; Mrs. Wyndham's, from grief for the sad alteration a few [Page 40] months had made in Mrs. Ne­ville's countenance. The chil­dren, struck by its mournful and interesting paleness, kept a pen­sive silence, and Emily's eyes were filled with tears; she leaned down and caressed Charlotte. At length Mrs. Wyndham, conquering her emotion, broke silence.

You expected me, my dear friend?

Yes; I knew your kindness would lead you to me as soon as possible. How happy it makes me to see you! I have a thou­sand things to say.

I am also impatient to con­verse with you; but do no fa­tigue [Page 41] yourself; our arrival has flurried you. Tell me whether you think the children grown? That, you know, is one of the first questions a mother asks.

I know it by experience. My dear Emily, come to me; how you are grown and improved!

You are always too good to me, my dear Ma'am; it delights me to see you and my dear Char­lotte.

Charlotte is happy, my dear girl, in your affection. But let me not forget my other friends.

She then kissed Maria and He­len, while Mrs. Wyndam took Charlotte on her knee.

With what pleasure do I see her in your arms!—Ah, my friend!—

She stopped, interrupted by a sudden emotion, and Charlotte's little countenance was over­spread with sadness, when she beheld her Mamma in tears.—"Why do you cry, Mamma?" said she; ‘you said you should be happy when Mrs. Wyndham came.—Ha [...]h, little [...],’ Mrs. Wyndham said in a low voice. Mrs. Neville then recovering herself, proceeded—

My dear friend, I have so much to say to you, and my mind will be so much easier when it is said, that you must gratify my impa­tie [...]ce by allowing me to con­verse with you immediately.

That shall be as you please; but will not the fatigue—

No, no; I feel myself quite equal to it now. I know not how long it shall be so; we ought never to de [...]er till the next hour what we can do in this, especial­ly when [...]he hours of our life promise to be few.

She spoke this with a sweet smile; but Mrs. Wyndham, over­come by the feelings of humani­ty, turned aside to conceal her tears.

Charlotte, will you take Miss Helen and Miss Maria into your play-room? you have several new toys.

Oh, and we have brought se­veral new ones for her; have we not, Emily? They are in that basket, Mamma; may I open it?

Take them with you, my dear, and open the basket in the next room.

Little Charlotte se [...]ed Maria by the hand, and skipping about, led her into the play-room.—Emily arose to assist Helen.

Miss Wyndham, when you have led your sister into the next room, will you return hither?

If you desire it, Ma'am, and Mamma has no objection.

I wish it much.

Return, then, my dear.

Emily curtsied, and returned in a few minutes.

Mrs. Neville paused a minute—She trembled, changed colour, and seemed so much affected, that Emily's heart beat with appre­hension for [...]. Mrs. Wynd­ham pressed [...] friend's hand, which she held in her own, and led her into discourse by talking of Charlotte's growth and im­provement.

She is, indeed, all my happi­ness in this world, the only tie, your friendship excepted, which holds me to it. My dear Emily, [Page 46] for how many years has your af­fection been one of my first de­lights! With what pleasure do I still recollect a thousand instan­ces of it! Have I not been some­times ungrateful, petulant, and unkind? If I have, forgive me now!

Ah, Charlotte! my friend, my dear friend!

My heart has ever understood yours; it does so still! But I distress you. My dear Miss Wyndham, I requested you to stay, because I am convinced your discretion exceeds your years.—You have a good and feeling heart; cherish its kind affections. You are gr [...]eved to see me thus wasted by disease, thus on the [Page 47] brink of another world. But, my dear young friend, to me the prospect is not dreadful! Let the lesson I now give you, sink deep into your heart: let it chasten and confirm your better thoughts.—The prospect of death is no longer terrible to me. The consolations of religion are my support!

She stopt, exhausted by speak­ing; for both Mrs. Wyndham and her daughter were too much affected to reply. She resumed her discourse, after an instant's pause.

Forgive me for speaking so much of myself; it is to recon­cile you to an event which soon, very soon must take place. My dear Emily, be not so affected; recover yourself.

Ah, Charlotte, why do you speak thus? Let me still hope that much may be done for you.

No, do not hope it. And why should you even wish it? why recall me to a world which, thank heaven, I am now prepared to quit? Who knows if I might be so some years hence? Be assured, however, nothing has been ne­glected: but all the medicine in the world can avail me no longer!

Emily, through her tears, stole a glance at her mother, and saw her change colour so often, that she dreaded her fainting. A sud­den motion alone spoke her ap­prehensions. Mrs. Wyndham saw it, and waved her hand to forbid [Page 49] her rising; then, by an immediate [...] of fortitude, she said▪ [...]ly, ‘Let me not disturb your tranquillity, my dear friend! M [...] God [...]ant me the same at the hour of my death!’

[...]ily's young heart, struck by these words, seemed to die within her; she hid her face with her hands, and burst into a flood of [...]rs. Mrs. Wyndham and Mrs. Neville looked at each other▪ but took no notice of her emotion, which she soon conquered by a wish to emulate the virtuous for­titude of her mother. When they were all rather more composed, Mrs. Neville said:

‘Allow me a few words more, though it distresses me to agi­tate you. One regret alone stands between me and a better world—my little Charlotte▪’ [Page 50] She stopped, and Mrs. Wyndham regarded her with earnest atten­tion.

She is so young, that my loss will be but for a short time la­mented. but, alas! hereafter how severely may she feel it! The loss of a mother to a girl, is infi­nitely greater than she can con­ceive till she is herself a mother. Ah, who shall shield her inno­cence from deceit, and her youth from anguish!

Ah, Charlotte! have you not a friend to whom you might con­fide this sacred and precious de­posit?

I have, Indeed; but will she, can she accept—

Can you doubt it? Have you not read my heart? Have you not always known the extent of its affections for you?

I have never doubted it; but you have already so many duties, so much to employ you!

By increasing our duties, if we discharge them properly, we increase our means of happiness. Beside, Emily is getting beyond childhood; she will, I know, be happy to share with me the care of your dear child.

Emily hastily arose; she threw herself with irresistible emotion on her knees before Mrs. Neville and her mother.

‘Hear me, Oh, my dear Mam­ma!’ [Page 52] she exclaimed; ‘suffer me, for I dare do nothing with­out your advice, suffer me to promise to be a mother to my Charlotte.—Do not thin [...] [...]e presumptuous; I am young, it is true, but my heart, in this affecting scene, has been chas­tened and improved, more than it could have been by the ex­perience of years. I promise, my heart promises, the most unlimited attention, the ten­derest love!’

Mrs. Neville, affected beyond expression, caught the charming girl in her arms; and her mo­ther, eagerly snatching her from them, prest her to her bosom. "But, Emily," said she, repress­ing her emotion, ‘do you seri­ously reflect on what you say? Recollect, that in future years your situation may change, you [Page 53] may be involved in difficulty; shall you still be able to keep your promise?’

Ah, Mamma, I shall be her mother! and who knows better than you the extent of those du­ [...] that sacred name imposes? If I am happy, Charlotte shall [...] my [...]elicity; if I am in dis­tress, will she refuse to divide my ca [...]es? Ah, no! I am sure of [...] for will she not be my daugh­ter?

I here no longer any doubts. We have only to obtain Mrs. [...]. My dear [...], it is true, Emily is young, but her heart is good, and Charlotte will [...] be under [...].

Oh, do not suspect me of the slightest hesitation. This con­versation has rendered me per­fectly tranquil: it has removed a weight from my mind! but where shall I find words to thank both my dear friends?

Cease, my dear friend, I beg you to cease such expressions.—Never, never talk of thanks to us who are most happy to give you one moment of comfort.—But this conversatinn has been too much for us all. Go, Emily, take a turn in the garden, and then return to us with your sis­ters.

Emily obeyed.—She returned in about a quarter of an hour; Helen, Maria, and little Char­lotte [Page 55] came with her. Mrs. Wyndham requested her to take care of them home, and excuse her to Mr. Wyndham, as she meant to spend the remainder of the day with Mrs. Neville.—They, therefore, took their leave, and as soon as they were in the coach, Emily placed little Charlotte on her knees, and kiss­ed her with the tenderest affec­tion: she asked her, if she would always love her, and received her promise to do so with extreme pleasure.

MRS. WYNDHAM returned in the evening, grave but not me­lancholy; her affection f [...] [...] husband and her childrens [...] not allow her to render the [...] un­comfortable, by indulging the grief she really felt for the in­creasing illness of her friend; she exerted herself to promote their innocent enjoyments, and while they s [...]t [...]ound the work table at their different e [...]ments as usual, she would not [...]dden by a sigh their affectionate hearts; this was true sensibility, very diffe­rent from that false and [...] [Page 57] feeling in which weak minds are so apt to indulge themselves. ^*

In the evening Emily general­ly took her French lesson; she was reading the history of Charles the XIIth. King of Sweden, in French, and came at length to a very striking anecdote, which Mrs. Wyndham desired her to read again in English—this she did very readily, as it was a com­mon practice with her mother, to make her translate any remark­able passage as she read it—After a description of a battle, which the King of Sweden had gained over the armies of the Czar of M [...]scovy, which greatly exceed­ed [Page 58] the number of his own, this anecdote follows:

"The Muscovites, who were in number about thirty thousand, passed one by one before less than seven thousand Swedes. The sol­diers in passing by the King, threw down their arms, and the officers laid down their ensigns and co­lours. Charles permitted all th [...]se men to repass the river, without retaining a single soldier prisoner. Then he entered victorious into Narva, accompanied by the Duc de Croi and the other Muscovite officers; he returned to them all their swords; and knowing that they wanted money, and that the merchants of Narva would let them have nothing on credit, [...]e sent a thousand ducats to the Duc de Croi, and five hundred to each of the other Muscovite o [...] ­ [...]icers, who were astonished at this [Page 59] treatment, of which they could not have formed an idea.—At Narva was written an account of this victory, to send to Stock­holm and to the allies of Sweden, but the King retrenched with his own hand all that was too advan­tageous to him, and too injurious to the Czar."

Emily is much improved; she reads French much better than she did, and translates with spirit. That is the great thing to be de­sired in learning a language; as to little common-place phrases, or mere conversation, they may be amusing, and they may at times be serviceable; but a language can never be entirely useful, till one can translate it liberally and easily.

I am quite [...] our opinion, and [Page 60] I dare say, Arthur will study Latin with the same idea.

I hope so—he already ceases to [...], and begins to translate; besides, to a dead language, what I have said, applies still more than to a living one.

Papa, what do you mean by a dead language?

A language, my dear, which is no longer spoken by [...] formerly, Latin and Greek were the common languages of large countries; at present, they are only spoken by the learned of dif­ferent nations, therefore they are called dead languages.—A living language means a [...] com­monly [Page 61] used by a whole people—Such as at this time is the French, the [...]lish, the Italian, the Ger­man, and some others.

Thank you, Papa, I under­stand very well now.

You are ri [...]ht to [...], my dear; always request to have [...] plained what you do not comprehend; and if it be worth knowing, you will be [...] of the best answer we can give you.

But, [...], [...]ll [...] which you [...] [...]ait, in the [...] his [...]d?

That, Mamma, where the [Page 62] Muscovites lay down their arms before a very small number of Swedes.

And you, Emily, what say you?

I differ from Arthur; I admire most the generosity and modesty of Charles.

I am of your opinion, perhaps, because we are females. Among the men, indeed, courage or bravery may be deemed a prefer­able quality to clemency and mo­deration.

It is a more shining one at least, and I fancy has dazzled Arthur's eyes; but, my boy, recollect how much more easy it is to be vali­ent than moderate. Valour is a sort of instinctive quality, few [Page 63] men are without it, the noise and hurry of a battle alone would in­spire it—nay, even in the weaker sex, a martial piece of music will frequently seem, for the time, to raise that enthusiastic spirit, which is called courage. But after a hard fought battle, to repress that sort of madness, to become immediately cool, temperate, for­giving, and generous; oh, my boy! what an empire over the passions does this show! What an equal and heroic frame of mind!

What enhances the merit of Charles is, that he was very young; this was his first victory of any consequence. I should scarcely have wondered, had cir­cumstances so seducing and in­flammatory put his moderation to slight.

I feel that I was wrong; and I believe, as you say, Sir, that I was indeed dazzled by the shining part of the story.

While you atone for a hasty decision, by a candid allowance of its impropriety, there is no harm done; but accustom your­selves, children, not to judge of ac­tions for yourselves. Ask always if they are just; be not deluded by a glaring outside; ask if no [...]aith [...]e infringed—if the laws of humanity are not broken. How seldom can the answer be in the affirmative when we are reading the lives of those who are called heroes! History is often a danger­ous study, it is apt to instil false principles; there are few that a young person should read alone. [Page 65] Emily has always read with her mother, therefore her decisions are generally right.

Emily was delighted with her father's praises, but she showed her pleasure only by a modest animated blush, and down-cast eyes; she threw not a single glance of exultation on Arthur, who seemed a little hurt. Mr. Wynd­ham then produced some excellent [...]ps of Sweden, Muscovy, and Denmark, in which they traced the routes of the Swedish and R [...]s­ [...]an armies; during which Helen and Maria went to bed, Emily and Arthur sat an hour longer, and then retired. Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham spent the rest of the exciting in talking over the events of the day. Mrs. Wyndham re­lated, as well as her emotions would permit, Emily's behaviour in the morning, and they mutu­ally [Page 66] rejoiced in the amiable and happy dispositions of their chil­dren. What felicity, to them thus to gratify the hearts of their parents! What misery to those wretched beings, who plant sor­row in the breasts of an indulgent father or mother!

After the children had taken their accustomed ramble the next morning, Emily went to call her Mamma, whom she was rather surprised, not to have found in the breakfast-room; Mrs. Wynd­ham was almost drest, and the following conversation passed be­tween them:

Good morning to you, my dear Mamma, I fear you are not [...]ite well this morning, as you are la­ter than usual.

Thank you, my dear child, I have no material complaint, only having slept ill; I fell into a dose when I ought to have risen.

Nevertheless, Mamma, you look not quite well; if my Father would have permitted me to make his breakfast, you need not have risen.

He would, I am sure, my love, but I did not wish it; I shall be quite well when I have break­fasted.

Allow me to say, Mamma, that I fear you exert yourself too much for our sakes; I know you are always anxious to give us our les­sons, but if you are not well—

You are too anxious, my dear, I am really not indisposed. The uneasiness of my mind alone pre­vented my sleeping, and that will be rather lessened than increased by attending you.

Ah, Mamma!—

What, my child? Speak plainly all your thoughts.

I know not if it is not a degree o [...] impropriety to express them all. Perhaps I should intrude too much into what ought to be sacred to me, your sorrow and your re­serve.

No, my dear; since the proof [Page 69] you gave me of sensibility and goodness of heart yesterday, I consider you no longer as a child, you are worthy to be called my friend—speak, then, without he­sitation.

With what gratitude am I pe­netrated with a title so dear! Ah, Mamma, if ever I should render myself unworthy of it, what punishment would be great enough for me?

You would find one in your heart!

But, Mamma, suffer me, then, to ask, how it is possible for you to preserve your tranquility, your composure of mind, when I am [Page 70] sure you suffer so much? If I am distressed, I shed tears, I am un­able to attend to any thing.

Yet, Emily, you are less over­come than you have seen Miss Somerville.

That is true, Mamma; when her little brother was ill, she lay all day on the bed, she cried and took no nourishment, re­peating continually, that she was distracted with grief.

In the mean time, Mrs. So­merville sat continually by her sick child, she allowed herself no time to rest, she attended to every thing respecting him herself. She had no assistant in whom she [Page 71] could confide. Tell me, Emily, had you been Miss Sonerville, what should you have don [...]?

Certainly, Mamma, I should have stifled my grief, and end [...] ­vo [...]red to assist and comfort m [...] mother.

I trust you would have done so; thus you see, in a well-regu­lated mind, duty is superior to feeling. We ought never to in­dulge the one at the expence of the other. Miss Somerville has lived a good deal with an aunt of hers, who has praised and inflamed that nervous kind of sensibility you have observed; thus her mind is weakened, her tears flow upon the most trifling occasion; she does not endeavour to restrain [Page 72] them, sh [...] even believes them me­ritoriou [...]; and thus she wears away her own constitution, and rende [...] herself a helpless burthen on [...]he stronger minds of her fri [...]ds. This is a character a [...]ainst which I would have you [...]e particularly guarded, as it arises from the over indulgence of our best feelings, and the line is easily passed before we are aware.

Ah, Mamma! I am in no dan­ger of falling into error, while I take you for my example.

I strive, at least, to give you the best in my power; it is the duty of a mother so to do.—Come, my dear, your father will want his breakfast.

[Page 73] After breakfast, Mrs. Wynd­ham sent a servant to know how Mrs. Neville did; and heard, with pleasure, she found herself something better; and, therefore, proposed to Mr. Wyndham, that they should spend the afternoon with their neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Sidney: she intended to take only Emily and Arthur with her, leaving Helen and Maria with an old faithful servant, who was accustomed to take care of them when Mr. and Mrs. Wynd­ham were absent.

This plan was accordingly put into execution; they [...]a [...]led on Mrs. Nevillein their way, whom they found tolerably well.—About half past six o'clock they reached Mr. Sidney's house, and on entering the drawing-room, found only Mr. and Mrs. Sidney, neither of their children (they [Page 74] had two) were present. In a few minutes Mrs. Sidney rung the bell, and ordered the servant to send Edward and Harriet into the drawing-room, as their visitors were come. Presently Miss Sid­ney ran into the room, and with­out regarding either Mrs. or Miss Wyndham, exclaim'd: "Mam­ma, Ned says he won't come!"

Very pretty, indeed! pray what is he doing?

He is making a ca [...]t, and when it is do [...]e, we are going to draw it about the court full of stones.

We! What, have you been helping him?

Yes, I have, and you cannot think how droll it will be.

However that is, you will please to sit down now; don't you see Miss Wyndham I

Yes, but I want to go and fin­ish the cart!

[...]ie, fie! I am ashamed of you! Come and speak to Miss Wynd­ham.

Emily rose to meet her, but Miss Sidney hung down her head, and would not speak; her frock was dirty, her hair looked as if it had not been disentangled for a week, her face was heated, and [Page 76] a very pretty little girl looked ex­tremely plain and disagreeable.

Do, Mr. Sidney, speak to her; you see she does not mind me.

How now, Miss! What's here to do! Why don't you do as your mother bids you? I shall take you in hand presently, if you don't behave better. Don't speak to her, Miss Wyndham; she is not worth your notice.

Miss Sidney then muttered a few words to Emily, who felt quite confused for her; they sat down together, and Emily tried, in vain, to make Miss Sidney speak. In about ten minutes the door burst open, and in rushed young Sidney, with a [...]ace like [...]a [...]l [...]t, and crying violently.

What's the matter, Ned? What do you cry for?

Oh, my mouse! my mouse!

Well, what's the matter with your mouse?

Oh, Papa, Jack Williams has s [...]atch [...]d it away!

Jack Williams snatched your [...] away! I'll Jack Williams [...] a young [...]eal! Where is he?

Run down the lane, Papa!

Come, my dear, don't cry, [Page 78] and I'll soon [...]etch it back again, if Mr. Wyndham will excuse me for a few minutes.

An I'll go too, Papa; and give him a good threshing; when you are there he won't dare to strike again.

Hark'ye, Ned; bring none of your nasty mice here, I hate the very [...]ight of them. Don't you want to go, Miss Harriet? I suppose you would help your bro­ther to beat Jack Williams.

Harriet looked very sulky at this—and as the tea was then over, Mrs. Sidney desired her to take Miss Wyndham into her play-room; though I suppose, added she, you have done with toys now, Miss Wyndham.

Emily is always happy to do whatever her young companions like.

Ay, Ma'am, you seem very happy in your children; I am sure I can never keep mine in order, though, I believe, I take as much pains, and scold them as much as any body.

Mrs. Wyndham could not help smiling at her idea of educating children; however, she was too polite to say any thing, so the two young ladies went into the play­room, where the following con­versation passed:

How cross Mamma is! she al­ways scolds so when any body's there. Don't you think she was very ill-natured?

Pardon me for contradicting you; I do not think so indeed.

What! not ill-natured, to hinder me from doing the cart, when it would have been so nice and so pretty?

Probably she thought you would overheat yourself. Besides, she wished me to have the pleasure of talking with you.

Oh, but she knows I hate to [...] with [...]. I don't so much c [...]e [...]ow you and I are together: but you looked so grave when I came in, I thought I should not [...] you! I am sure [Page 81] if I had been you, I should have laughed!

At what should I have laughed?

Oh, to hear Mamma scold so, and to see me look so like a [...]ool.

I deed, I was very sorry, it is such a sad thing to incur the dis­pleasure of one's mother.

Oh, not at all; I don't care, she won't say any more to me; and if I had cried then, I knew she would let me go; but I was ashamed, because you and your Mamma were there; besides, I was a little afraid of Papa.—Does your Papa humour your brother more than he does you?

I hardly know what you mean; Papa humours neither of us.

Why he looks very good-na-tured?

He is indeed, much too good­natured to humour his children; he is uniformly kind and indul­gent when we behave well, and constantly strict and resolute when we deserve his displeasure.

Well, that seems very odd! As to Ned, Papa never contra­di [...]ts him, nor Mamma neither; but he does me, and is as angry as can be sometimes.

They then talked about the books and play-things; the latter, [Page 83] indeed, were in general uninter­ [...]ing, to Miss Wyndham, who was too well informed to derive much amus [...]ment from mere toys; she was, however, also too well­bred and too humble to show the l [...]st contempt for any thing her companion thought entertaining. Amongst the books, she found se­veral with which she was well acquainted; but though they were sadly abused, Miss Sidney said she had not read any of them; and thus all conversation respect­ing their merits was precluded. Having looked them over, Emily w [...]d to the window to examine a [...] which hung there in a [...] some [...]a [...]e.

What a pretty bird! It is a [...]old [...]inch, I see.

Yes, and a fine songster I assure you.

Did you take him from the nest?

No; he was about a year old when I had him. Ned caught him in a trap in the winter.

Poor thing, was he not very uneasy when he was first con [...]ined?

Oh, I don't know; he used to [...]utter about sometimes, but we did not mind that.

He is very tame now; he does not seem at all disturbed when I stand by the cage.

That is because he does not see you.

Not see me! How is that?

Because he is blind.

Blind! Ah, poor little crea­ture. By what accident did that happen to him?

No accident at all; Ned did it on purpose.

On purpose! Oh, how could he be so cruel?

He did it to make him sing the [Page 86] better, with a red-hot knitting­needle.

Oh, how shocking! Were you not grieved?

Not I; I liked it, because it's my bird. If I had not liked it, it should not have been done, I promise you.

Is it possible you should have given your consent! Oh if you knew how melancholy it is to be blind!

La! Why a bird does not mind, you know!

Not mind! Do you think, [Page 87] then, they do not feel? Do you think they have no pleasure in seeing the light? Why, then, do they sing when it first dawns?

Oh, that is because it's natu­ral to them.

Yes, to rejoice in the day-light! Ah, poor little wretch! Would I could restore you to sight!

But you cannot think how much better he sings!

I should not wish to hear him: I should think every note a me­lancholy expression of his sorrow, or a reproach to me for having caused it!

What odd notions you have? Where did you pick them up?

If you mean the notion of hurting no creature whatever, I gained it, as I did all I know from my father and mother.—Besides that, I never had the least desire to hurt any thing; and as to blinding any poor creature, I know too well how dreadful it must be, to be capable of doing it.

Why, how do you know any thing about it?

Alas! I have a sister who is blind!

Poor thing, I should be sorry for her.

Then why are you not sorry for your bird?

Oh, because a bird is not like a little girl.

That is true, they are not pa­rallel cases, but there is a resem­blance. The bird does not feel so much; but that does not prove it does not feel at all.

Well, I declare I am sorry; but nobody ever told me it was cruel, so how should I know?

[Page 90] Here they were interrupted by a knocking at the window, which Harriet opened; it was Master Sidney, who called to her to come round to the drawing-room window, where she would see something "monstrous droll."

Harriet scampered away, and Emily followed her; they found young Edward and Mr. Sidney standing at the window; Arthur was quietly seated by his father, who with Mrs. Wyndham and Mrs. Sidney, were at another part of the room.

Ned, what have you got to show me?

Oh, my mouse; Papa got it [...] from Jack Williams, but [Page 91] its leg was broken, so I gave it to the cat—see how she tosses it about.

Where, where? Oh, I see her! [...], it's running away!

No, she has caught it again; look how still she is now.

Emily, shuddering to see the poor little animal so tormented, retired from the window. Mrs. Sidney then asked Arthur why he did not go and look at the mouse; and he, who generally spoke his thoughts, sometimes not very politely, said: Because I think i [...] both cowardly and cruel.

How so, my d [...]?

It is cruel to suffer any thing to be tormented, and cowardly, because the poor creature is lame, and without that defence which nature intended it to have.

Oh, but a mouse is such a nasty creature; I never care how they are tormented, because I hate them to such a degree.—Besides, one must have them destroyed.

Yes, Ma'am, but then I would have it with the least pain pos­sible; and especially I would not give them to the cat when they are lame.

But, Arthur, you are not very polite.

Oh, I like him the better for that; I hate a boy that's afraid of speaking his mind.

But then he should not do it at the risk of offending any one.

After a little more talk about the mouse, whose distress seemed to afford great amusement to the party at the window, Mr. Wynd­ham's carriage was announced, and that amiable family, with pleasure, took leave of a circle so different from themselves. In their way home they talked of their visit—and when Mrs. Wynd­ham heard of the poor goldfinch, she warmly exprest her abhor­rence of such extreme cruelty; soon after the coach stopped, and nothing more was said on the [Page 94] subject.—The next morning, how­ever, as it proved wet, the chil­dren, instead of playing in the garden, amused themselves in the same room where their mo­ther sat at work, and here the following conversation passed:

Come, Emily, tell us what you did at Mr. Sidney's last night?

Nothing agreeable, I can as­sure you. I went with Miss Sid­ney into her play-room, but her books were torn to pieces, and then we came back into the draw­ing-room to see the cat play with a mouse.

The cat play with a mouse; but did she not hurt it? Mamma [Page 95] always says "poor thing," when old Tom catches one.

Oh yes, she hurt it enough, I believe, but they did not mind that, as Miss Sidney said, when I asked her if her goldfinch was not unhappy when they first con­fined him.

Not mind hurting any thing! I fancy this Miss Sidney is not very good?

No, truly; for if you had be [...] [...] when she first came in­to [...]!

Why, what did she do?

Her cap was torn half off, her [Page 96] hair was tangled, and her face dirty; and she came in bawl­ing, just like this— (mimicking) "Mamma, Ned says he won't come!"

Ah! that is just like her, with her arms swinging, and her mouth open.

But did she not speak to you?

No, nor to Mamma neither; and then she almost cried because she wanted to help her brother to make a cart!

To make a cart! Was that a proper employment for a young lady?

No, indeed! and when she was told to speak to me, she came up with her head poking down, and her finger in her mouth, mutter­ing so—"How d'ye do, Miss?"

Oh dear, how strange!

Ah, that is exactly her; but now, Emily, tell us how she looked when her Mamma asked her, if she would not like to help her brother to beat Jack Willi­ams?

Oh, she pouted out her lips so; then she crammed her fingers into her mouth; and then leered round to see if I was looking at her! but, Arthur, how did Mr. Ned get his mouse again?

Oh, you never saw such a cow­ardly fellow; when we overtook the boy who had got it, Mr. Sid­ney gave him two or three blows, and took it from him; but poor thing, one of its legs was broken, so then Mr. Ned cried like a mad thing, and flew at the boy, beat­ing and scratching him without mercy, and the boy did not dare to strike again. At last Mr. Sid­ney said, ‘Come away, Ned, let him alone now; but if he affronts you again, I'll horse­whip him handsomely.—Do it now, Papa, said Ned, do it now! Fie, Master Sid­ney, said I, two against one is not fair, Oh, who minds fair, said he, with such a beggar's boy as that!’—and Mr. Sidney never told him he was wrong.

In telling us that, Arthur, have you not told us the very reason of Master Sidney's beha­viour?

What, that his father did not teach him better? Yes, I believe so!

Tell me, then, is he most an object of ridicule or pity?

Of pity, to be sure!

And, Emily, do you not think the same cause may have produ­ced the same effect in Miss Sidney?

Yes, Ma'am, for she said no­body [Page 100] body had ever told her it was wrong to torment her bird.

Then why have you ridiculed her?

I—I—did not mean any harm, Mamma!

Did you not mean to make her appear an absurd, ridiculous cha­racter? Did you not mean to make your brother and sisters laugh at her?

Yes, Ma'am.

Could you, then, had you it in your power, do her greater unkindness? In making people [Page 101] ridiculous, we injure them ex­tremely. A nick-name, as it is called, given to children, grows up with them, they are known by it; those who are not acquainted with them, form a light, if not a bad opinion of their characters: in the mean time, perhaps, they correct the faults or the follies that gave rise to it, but that is not known, while their nick­names precede their entrance in­to every company. It is the same with every species of ridi­cule; if your brother and sisters were to hear to Miss Sidney ten years hence, they would connect with her name, the awkward, disagreeable idea you have given them of her character; they might, perhaps, unguardedly, express the opinion they had formed of her, and thus punish her for the faults she might have long [Page 102] before have corrected. Do you perceive to what extent this might injure her? It might de­prive her of friends, perhaps of an establishment for life!

Oh, Mamma, I have, indeed, been very wrong; I beg of you to pardon me.

I allow to you that Miss Sid­ney's behaviour was very blame­able; and, therefore to me in whom you have a perfect confi­dence, I admit you to remark on it, but not to do it with ill-nature o [...] severity. I expected from the goodness of your heart, pity and generous allowance for Miss Sid­ney, who wants the advantages you are more happily possessed of. Do you believe, that without [Page 103] better advice and example, you should have been better than Miss Sidney?

Oh, no, indeed; I must be both ungrateful and presumptuous if I could believe it.

Even were there no excuse to be made for Harriet Sidney's faults, I could not allow you to employ ridicule to expose them. Personal ridicule, in general, arises from envy or ill-nature, a mean desire of lowering those vir­tues we cannot reach, or a cruel wish to expose those follies we take a malicious pleasure in ob­serving. Who, indeed, is there in whom nothing ridiculous can be found? The most perfect cha­racters, by a little exaggeration, may be made ridiculous.

I see, Mamma, that I have been guilty of a very great fault, I am much concerned for it, and willing to submit to any punish­ment you shall think proper. But permit me to observe, since I do not do so out of perverseness, on what you last said—for in­stance, what is there ridiculous in you?

You pay me a great compli­ment, Emily, which for once I will accept. But you will, perhaps, scarcely believe so striking a picture was once drawn of me by a young mimic of my acquaintance, who was not aware of my seeing her, that I could not help laughing at it myself. My little cough, the trick I have of rather leaning my head [Page 105] when I speak, and the slow man­ner which I have of talking were imitated, and made to appear ri­diculous.

Oh, Mamma, but these are not ridiculous!

Not in themselves, perhaps, but by a little exaggeration, which a true mimic never spares, they become so; nay, Emily, even my tender attention to my grand-mother, who was very old, and required constant, assiduity, was set in the same point of view; it was deemed a disturbing and importunate "rout about nothing." an affectation of fondness and at­tention.

Ah, Mamma, what an odious [Page 106] character! Were you not very angry?

By no means—I pitied my young acquaintance very much; it had been laughed at, and she was encouraged to mimic everybody, and no one had ever told her it was wrong.

Well, I shall never mimic any body again. But, Mamma, you used to laugh very much at Mr. Harris, when he imitated some of the players in London.

That is true—but that was not personal ridicule; he merely imitated the particular style of speaking in each; some of them, you remember, were not laugh­able [Page 107] only those of the comic actors, and that because they were exactly like. He also imi­tated the manners of sailors and clowns, but that was not per­sonal ridicule, it was aimed at no one in particular.

Then that is allowable?

Under certain circumstances it may be, but it requires a very nice judgment to direct it, and in a woman it never can be right. It discovers an inclination to set herself off; besides, it must be accompanied by a self-possession, inconsistent with the modesty of the female character. Every ap­proach to what is called humour, ought to be discouraged in a wo­man; it puts her too forward [Page 108] and too much upon a level with an actress; add to that, it makes her many enemies. People who see how much she excells in gene­ral imitation, believe she is equally capable of personal mi­mic [...]y, and that she is only re­strained by their presence.—They fancy that when she is under no restraint, she is less guarded, and think that they may be of the number of those she ridicules; thus she is shunned and hated.

I see, Mamma, the force of all you have urged, and I am quite determined never more to be a mimic; but, at present, I hope you pardon me.

Since you have not been wil­fully and obstinately wrong, I [Page 109] pardon you, my dear; in the mean time, however, you have given me great pain, because I had hoped you had more reflection; thus I find myself under the ne­cessity of imposing a punishment: I meant to have given you Smel­lie's Natural History to read to­day, but the childishness you have shown, will prevent me from putting it into your hands till a month from this time; if during that space you commit no serious fault, I shall believe this was a mere temporary return to the faults of infancy, and that you are capable of relishing the useful information contained in that pleasing book; if, on the contrary, you again do wrong, I shall still longer defer the plea­sure I have promised you.

Emily felt excessively hurt and [Page 110] disappointed on the occasion; however, she felt too much the constant justice of her mother to have murmured, even if she had not been convinced that in this instance she deserved her punish­ment.

In the afternoon Mrs. Wynd­ham went to Mrs. Neville's, whom she found so extremely ill, that she could not prevail on her­self to quit her, but sent word home, that she should remain with her friend that night.—In the morning Mr. Wyndham sent to know how Mrs. Neville was, and heard, with great concern, that she could not live many hours; he communicated this intelligence to Emily, and immediately went to Mrs. Neville's house, leaving Emily excessively distressed. She felt the most restless anxiety, ac­companied [Page 111] by ardent wishes, to alleviate her mother's anguish; she had an incessant struggle to restrain her tears; but a wish to emulate the fortitude and equa­nimity of her mother, prevailed on her to repress them as much as possible, and to sit down with her sisters, supplying, as well as she could, the place of Mrs. Wyndham. About four in the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Wynd­ham returned, bringing with them little Charlotte Neville.—Mrs. Wyndham immediately re­tired to her own room, while Mr. Wyndham led little Char­lotte into the parlour, and sent for Emily, who, pale and trem­bling, appeared immediately.

Mr. Wyndham was evidently much affected, and the following s [...]t dialogue passed:

Emily, have you seen your mother?

No, Sir, she is gone to her own room.

Do not then disturb her? you guess what has happened?

I fear so, indeed!

Charlotte is now your child!

My dear Emily, they will not let me see Mamma.

You must not desire it.

But Mamma will be uneasy if I do not go to her, she always chooses to have me in her room.

My dear child, you must ask to see your Mamma no more.

So you told me before; but why? Let me see her; she will wake if I call her.

No, my dear, you cannot wake her, nor ought you to wish it; she is free from pain, and gone to a better world, where she will be happy!

Is Mamma happy? And will [Page 114] she never cry again, nor feel pain?

Never.

I am glad of that; but shall I not go to her? She used to say I should.

Yes, my dear, when God pleases.

I hope it will please God to let me very soon.

But it depends on yourself.—If you are not good as long as you live; if you do not pray to God always, you will never go to that happy world where your Mamma is now.

Oh teach me, then, to be very good, indeed I will try; and tell me what I must say when I pray to God to let me go to Mam­ma?

You must say: ‘Grant, O God! that through life I may do thy will, and when I die, be taken to thy everlasting hap­piness.’

Oh do not fear I shall forget it, I shall say it every day twenty times.

Mr. Wyndham then left them, and Emily, though deeply af­fected, endeavoured to lead the [Page 116] little girl to other subjects, in which at times she succeeded; but Charlotte frequently spoke of her mother, in a way which affected all who heard her.—Mrs. Wyndham remained alone till the evening, when she admitted Emily, who remained with her till bed time. The next morn­ing Mrs Wyndham returned to her family, composed though deeply dejected, thus ennobling grief by not yielding to its pas­sionate impulses; though for many weeks it required a violent struggle between her reason and her feelings, to appear with that dignified serenity she so much wished to retain. Emily, struck by this example of fortitude, de­termined to profit by it; it car­ried a lesson to her heart, which she never afterwards forgot.—From this time she strove, with [Page 117] undeviating attention, to cor­rect her own faults, that she might be a worthy pattern for Charlotte to follow; she ceased not to exert the utmost tender­ness and patience towards the lit­tle girl, who, in being an orphan, seemed to have a sufficient claim on the affections of this amiable family, and shared equally with Maria the fondness of them all. Helen became very much attached to her, and Charlotte vied with her sisters in assiduous attendance on her.

Emily, however, notwith­standing her earnest wishes to do right, was too young not to err sometimes, an instance of which occurred once every day, in her ex­pressing some [...] wish [...], and particularly [...] she could know what some r [...]ions of hers [Page 118] were doing who lived in a distant country; Mrs. Wyndham smiled and told her, she would give her a story to read which had been written by a friend for her on a similar occasion when she was a girl.—Accordingly in the even­ing, when her sisters were gone to bed, Emily read aloud the following story.

THE limitation of man's know­ledge has been, in all ages, a theme equally chosen by the mo­ralist and the discontented. The first of these characters has from [Page 120] thence deduced many profitable conclusions to the chastisement of our present vanity, and the exaltation of our [...]uture hope.—While the last has murmured at this confinement of his faculties, which reach not even to the per­fect understanding of those things more immediately under his in­spection, and are consequently very unequal to the discernment of future events or distant cir­cumstances. To check, in some degree, the dissatisfaction of the latter, and to add strength to the reasonings of the former, the tale of Elfrida shall attempt; nay more, in spite of its puerile ap­pearance, it shall strive to place the subject in another point of view, and consider the narrow­ness of our capacity in this state of our existence, as one great source of the comfort we enjoy.

[Page 121] Fashioned by the hand of na­ture with every charm to capti­vate the senses, Elfrida possessed also a soul of the highest order: and that aspiring genius which grasps eagerly at knowledge, and having received all that its in­structors have to bestow, like Alexander, weeps for more worlds of information to subdue. Elfri­da was the daughter of an Eng­lish Baron, who was high in the favour of the third brave Ed­ward. In the various wars of that king, Elfrida's father took an active part. She was now ap­proaching the close of her six­teenth year, when Fitz-Richard was summoned from his castle to attend his sovereign to the Scot­tish wars. But a few months had he [...] freed from the weight of his armour, yet he resumed it with alacrity, and felt a regret [Page 122] only in parting from his fair and innocent child.—He left her overwhelmed with grief under the care of her governess and her women, for her mother had slept many years in the silent tomb. Elfrida, who enthusiasti­cally loved her father, and cen­tered in him all the affections of a very sensible heart, lamented his departure with incessant regret.—The solitude in which she had been educated, and which, dur­ing his residence in it, had for her every charm, now became insi­pid. She frequently wandered from her governess and her wo­men to indulge her sorrow, and waited for hours, at the extre­mity of the park, in the hope of sooner receiving intelligence from the Baron. One day, when she had finished her morning stu­dies, which were become unin­teresting [Page 123] to her, she retired from the heat of the sun into a natural sort of grotto, formed in a rock▪ through which perpetually ran a clear stream, and whose en­trance was shaded by a luxuriant growth of jessamine and honey suc­kles, which had been planted and reared by the sportive labour of Fitz-Richard and Elfrida. This place recalled to her mind the im­age of her father in all its force.—"He has been gone," she ex­claimed, ‘three weeks, and I have heard from him but once. Perhaps at this moment, fa­tigued by toilsome marches, he faints beneath the heat of this burning sun. In vain may [...]e now wish for his Elfrida to prepare the simple fruits which she has so often decorated with bands of flowers for his noon­tide refreshment. While I am [Page 124] enjoying the luxurious cool­ness of his favourite retreat, to what perils may my father be exposed? Shortly, too, new dangers will surround him; the dangers of unsparing war! His valour will place him foremost in the ranks of of battle, and who can tell.’—The suggestion which her heart inspired, her tongue refus­ed to express; a shower of tears fell from her eyes—she trembled and was silent. At length she proceeded— ‘Oh that I could be at this moment informed of thy welfare, my father! that some beneficent being would instruct me how thou art em­ployed! Why, alas! has hea­ven denied the privilege of knowing how those we love are situated during their absence from us▪’—Elfrida had no [Page 125] sooner pronounced these words, than she was struck with a sense of their impropriety, and has­tened to implore the pardon of Heaven for an expression which her delicacy of feeling taught her immediately to renounce as presumptuous. Still, however, her heart acknowledged a desire that a constant information of her father's situations might be made consistent with the will of Heaven.

Deeply engaged in these re­flections, Elfrida scarcely heard a flight noise in the back part of the cavern; but at length, ima­gining she heard the sound of light footsteps, she raised her eyes, and started on beholding a figure, whose appearance spoke it of a different order of beings. The stature of this form scarcely exceeded a foot in height, and [Page 126] its dimensions were proportion­ably small. Its features, how­ever diminutive, were regularly beautiful, and its countenance bespoke tender benevolence.—On its head was placed a turban of the finest blue, the texture of which seemed like the leaf of a flower. It was ornamented with a circlet of precious stones, which, though small, was of in­credible brightness. Its gar­ment was a sort of robe descend­ing in folds to the ground, of the most exquisite whiteness, and shining like the flight threads which in the autumn are seen floating over the grass at sun-set. In one hand it held an ivory wand, and in the other a mirror of the most admirable polish.

Elfrida, startled by this super­natural appearance, would have [...]ed, but was withheld by a sort [Page 127] of irresistible impulse. Her eyes eagerly surveyed the shining stranger, who, advancing, said: ‘Be not alarmed, Elfrida; for innocence, and goodness of heart like yours, have from me nothing to fear. You have heard, and, with propriety, despised, a thousand idle tales of the fairies, which have no existence but in imagination. You have rightly judged it in­consistent with the wisdom of the Supreme Being to suffer a set of inferior agents to tor­ment mankind with impunity. But learn, fair Elfrida, that although they exist not for purposes so vain, they yet do exist. Under the controul of superior power, they are per­mitted, by their invisible agen­cy, to direct the smaller con­cerns of man's life. Once in [Page 128] an age their personal appear­ance is allowed to some favour­ed mortal, who, like yourself, possesses a heart simple and un­seduced by the allurements of vice. I have heard your re­gret and your wishes, and to me it is given, though I can­not remove the one, yet to fulfil the other. Your father is gone on a service of danger, but it is also a service of glory. He is himself perfectly satisfi­ed with his situation, nor would he exchange it for the inglorious repose of a peace­ful station. The only allay to his satisfaction is the necessity of quitting you, but he anti­cipates the time of his return with hopeful pleasure. Be it your task to improve the in­terval of his absence by an un­remitting attention to your [Page 129] improvement in those accom­plishments he wished you to possess. Do not by vain regrets impair the health, and lavish the sensibility on which Fitz-Richard depends [...]r his future happiness.’

Elfrida, who had listened at first with some degree of terror, which insensibly wore away, now hastened to assure the fairy, that she was perfectly convinced of the propriety of her remarks, and to promise, that she would in future more steadily endea­vour to repress a too great sen­sibility.— ‘You say well, gentle Elfrida, replied the fairy, and I read in your heart the sincerity of your purposes.—But why wander the eyes of my fair favourite? I see you are curious to know more of me. I am the queen of the [Page 130] fairies, and to me is particu­larly allotted the care of the young and beautiful. This wand is the scarce of my pow­er, and this mirror, Elfrida, shall be to you, if you still wish it, all you have asked from Heaven. Tell me, do you yet seek to be constantly informed of your father's situ­ation? I see you do.—Take, then, this mirror: three times in every day, (with the inter­val of at least half an hour between each time) for five minutes, it shall dep [...] to you the exact image and employ­ment of your father.’

Elfrida eagerly extended her hand, and for the first time los­ing her attention to the fairy, she cast her eyes on the so-much desired gift. She there beh [...]ld the image of her father, who [Page 131] walked conversing with a friend; his countenance expressed health [...]d happiness. Elfrida's tears [...] with pleasure at the sight, and when she had gazed on it till it vanished, she turned eagerly [...]und, and thanked repeatedly [...] and generous fairy.— ‘You are then satisfied with my gi [...]t, Elfrida?’ said she with a [...] smile; ‘you persist in the determination of accept­ [...] it? Ah, mistaken—but I [...]ve you to experience the [...]ice you have made! If at any time you become tired of possessing the mirror, come hit [...]er [...]am, and when you have dipped it in the water of this stream, I will appear and re­ceive it from you.’

The [...]a [...]y then disappeared, [...] Elfrida, after pausing for a [...] minutes to recover from her [Page 132] astonishment, returned to the eastle. To her governess alone, in whom she had a perfect confi­dence, she repeated the circum­stance of this surprising vision; at first the governess treated it as a vapour of the imagination▪ but on seeing the mirror, began to believe in the truth of the sto­ry. Elfrida, that her mind might be perfectly satisfied, beg­ged her to cast her eyes on it at the same time with herself; the governess complied, and they both saw the Baron Fitz-Richard. He was on horseback, and while they gazed, the horse fell and thr [...]w his rider to the ground: Elfrida shrieked and dropped the mirror! Instantly she caught it again from the earth; but, alas! in that moment the picture had vanished! The excess of her anxiety and dread may, perhaps [Page 133] be conceived; she wept, she trembled, and at intervals giving herself up to the horrors of her imagination, she screamed aloud in agony.—Thus passed the al­lotted half hour which must in­tervene ere she could again see any thing; the moment it expired, she seized the glass, and beheld her father extended on a couch pale and languid, his arm was bound round by a scarf, and El­frida believed he had broken it; this was all that appeared, and Elfrida remained as unsatisfied as ever. In this interval her go­verness endeavoured to impress on the mind of Elfrida the folly of seeking to know more than Providence had revealed; but Elfrida, distracted with anxiety, heard her not, waiting, with her eyes fixed on the mirror, till the alotted half hour should expire. [Page 134] At length the heavy minute; de­parted, and the same scene was again presented to her view. And now the mirror had for that day lost its power, and in vain El­frida wept and rejected sleep. Ere the night was spent, an express arrived, who brought letters from the Baron. Elfrida opened them with impatience, they were dated five days before, and though they gave the most satisfactory accounts of his health at that time, Elfrida, who knew what had passed since, received no pleasure from them. She threw them aside, and waited for the morning dawn with a passionate impatience, which destroyed the natural sweetness of her temper. Ere it arrived, however, sleep closed her weary eyes, and she opened them in consequence of the sun-beams which darted [Page 135] through her windows. Angry with herself for having slept she seized the mirror, and saw her father at the door of his tent; he raised his hands in thankfulness to Heaven, and Elfrida at once perceived that his arm had not been broken, and that by the quickness of his recovery, in all probability, the accident had been comparatively slight. She first ardently thanked Heaven for his escape, and then exclaim­ed, ‘Ah, mischievous present, what grief has it caused me! Had I not accepted this mirror, these letters would have been to me a source of delight; I should have known nothing of a circumstance which has been in itself of little consequence, and which, even had it been worse, I could not have reme­died. I will return this mirror [Page 136] to the fairy, and henceforth content myself with the gifts which Heaven has bestowed.’ Her governess applauded her re­solve, and Elfrida hastened to the grotto, she impatiently dip­ped the mirror into the stream, and the fairy immediately ap­peared.— ‘Take back your fatal gift,’ said the fair Elfrida, ‘I have already proved the misery which attends it, already have discovered the folly of my wishes.—With pleasure I receive it, replied the fairy, a pleasure which arises from the joy I feel in such an instance of your prudence. I knew when I gave it to you, the sor­rows which must accompany the knowledge you desired, but scarcely hoped that you would have been so soon convinced of its inefficacy to make you happy. [Page 137] —'Tis true, I might have made the gift more perfect, but if it had continually reflected the image of your father, you would have neglected every thing to gaze upon it, and your time would have passed unmarked by improvement. I see you have no desire of the kind remaining; but, Elfrida, although this gift is useless to you, yet the experience it has brought will not prove so. Henceforth you will be con­vinced when you are tempted to form wishes, that if granted, they would in all probability conduce as little to your real happiness as this has done. None could wear a more speci­ous appearance than this, which seemed prompted by filial af­fection; but suspect in future, Elfrida, that every desire of [Page 138] whatever sort, is unreasonable and improper, if it leads to discontent.’

The fairy ended, and Elfrida, after sincerely thanking her, re­turned to the castle with a mind deeply impressed by the circum­stances which had befallen her.

This story, and the comments it occasioned, employed the re­mainder of the evening. Emily requested to know why her mo­ther objected to Helen's and Maria's hearing it, and Mrs. Wyndham explained to her the difficulty which such young minds would have had to sepa­rate the fiction from the truth of the story.

A few days afterwards, Em­ily [Page 139] and Helen were invited by a lady who lived near them, to accompany Mrs. Wyndham to hear her concert, which she had formed at her own house to ce­lebrate the birth-day of her son; this party they anticipated with the greatest delight, they were both extremely fond of music, and it formed, indeed, almost the only pleasure which Helen could enjoy without imperfec­tion; opportunities of hearing good music in the country are scarce, and thus the two girls fixed all their wishes for several days before on the accomplish­ment of this scheme. They were accordingly drest to go, and the carriage was ordered, when a message arrived from the lady to whose house they were going, saying, that she was very sorry [Page 140] it was not in her power to re­ceive them, as she had just heard of the death of a relation, which obliged her to renounce her in­tended plan for the evening. Emily immediately said, ‘Poor Mrs. Selwyn, how sorry am I for her!’ and seemed to for­get her own disappointment in concern for the cause; but He­len directly burst into tears, and seemed quite overwhelmed with mortification. Mrs. Wyndham took no notice of her for a few minutes, hoping she would of herself overcome the impatient sorrow into which she had fallen; but perceiving she indulged it, and sullenly rejected the sooth­ings of her sisters, she spoke to her.

Helen, you both surprise and vex me! my dear child, you [Page 141] must not suffer yourself to be thus overcome by such a trifle. Cease crying, Helen, and speak to me.

Helen, however, continued crying with great violence, and as Maria attempted to caress and console her, she pushed her a­way with an impatient air.

Oh, I see you are determined to be a naughty girl; go, then, from me to the farthest part of the room, and when you are more quiet, and more like a reasonable being, I will speak to you again. Lead her away, Emily, if she does not push you from her.

[Page 142] These words seemed to make some impression on Helen, but passion again got the better of her feelings, and she suffered herself to be led from her mo­ther, who, much hurt, desired Emily to change her dress, and then as the carriage was ready, she would take a ride with her, as the evening was delightful—Emily cheerfully obeyed, and by the time she returned, Helen was once more quiet. Mrs. Wyndham then called her to her, and said,

Now, Helen, tell me why you cried?

Because, Mamma, I was so much disappointed.

But did you suppose that your tears would overcome Mrs. Sel­wyn's just reason for not receiv­ing us, or oblige me to have a concert to entertain you?

No, Mamma, but I could not help crying.

Helen, if we suffer ourselves to say we cannot help being foolish and unreasonable, we shall soon become really incapa­ble of avoiding it, and thus throw away the best of our pos­sessions, reason and self-com­mand. Do you suppose Emily was not disappointed?

But not so much as I was.

How can you be sure of that? But even allowing it to be so, you may suppose she was some­what mortified; at least, then, you would have expected her to appear dissatisfied.

But Emily is older than I am.

That is true; but if Emily, from your age, had permitted herself to fall into a passion on every disappointment, don't you suppose by this time she would [Page 145] have been still more violent than you are? From an infant I have accustomed Emily to bear dis­appointment patiently; and this is one instance out of many in which she has found the advan­tage of it. She has neither fretted herself sick, nor made me uncomfortable.

Have I made you uncomfort­able, Mamma?

Yes: a child can never do wrong without inflicting a pang on the heart of a parent. Be­sides, in this instance, I have another reason for being dis­turbed; the fear that I have [Page 146] been the first cause of your im­patience: knowing that your enjoyments were few, and your inconveniences many, I have al­ways endeavoured to increase the first and remove the latter. I have always studiously tried to prevent your being disappointed of any expected pleasure, and have even taken pains to pro­cure them for you, knowing af­ter all my endeavours, how li­mitted they still must be!

Oh, Mamma, how good you are!

But, Helen, if in return for my indulgence, I find that I have [Page 147] injured your temper, and made you incapable of bearing the unavoidable mortifications of life, so far from thinking my­self good, I shall for ever re­proach myself with folly and imprudence! Hitherto I have hoped I had done my duty with respect to my children. Oh, Helen! will you oblige me to endure the bitter reproaches of my own heart for having mis­taken it?

Oh never, never! Forgive me, Mamma, I will never again make you uneasy.

You also treated Maria un­kindly.

Maria, I beg you to pardon me. Will you let me kiss you?

Yes, my dear; I was only sorry, not angry with you; Mamma forgives you, so do not be unhappy.

Do you, Mamma, do you forgive me?

Yes, Helen.

Call me, then, your child, and embrace me. You do not think [Page 149] me worthy of it! Punish me, Mamma, in any way you think proper, but do not refuse to let me be your child.

Embrace me, my dear child.

Oh, now then I am once more happy!

You will permit Helen to go with us, Mamma?

No, my dear; though I have forgiven her, I cannot in justice [Page 150] remit her punishment; she must remain at home.

Then, Mamma, suffer me to remain with her; I cannot en­joy any pleasure while she is un­happy.

Yes, go, my dear Emily, I deserve to be punished.

That I may not deprive Em­ily of the pleasure she has so well deserved, and as Helen is so truly sensible of her fault, I will forget what has passed, and we will all go.

[Page 151] The children were excessively delighted, and setting out in the highest spirits, they enjoyed their ride without any mixture of regret.

In the course of a day or two, Mrs. Wyndham went with her eldest daughter to pay a visit in the neighbourhood; there were three or four young people, and it was proposed they should stroll a while in the garden; they did so, and on their return, Mrs. Wyndham, accustomed to ob­serve the looks of Emily, saw that she returned dissatisfied with her companions, and much dis­turbed at something which had happened. When they were seated in the carriage to return, Mrs. Wyndham questioned her on the subject, and Emily re­plied thus:

[Page 152] It is true, Mamma, I was displeased with the behaviour of the young ladies with whom I walked.

How, my dear?

When we first went into the garden, Miss Darnford said to me, ‘You'll excuse me, Miss Wyndham, if I walk with Miss Smithson, I have not seen her before to-day, and I have a great deal to tell her.’ I thought this a little strange, however I begged she would do as she liked best; and accord­ingly she took Miss Smithson by the arm, walked on with her, and entered into a long talk, laughing and speaking with so much agitation, that I concluded [Page 153] she must have met with some­thing remarkably droll and plea­sing. Miss Martin, who walked with me, said, ‘I think Miss Darnford is very rude, when one of her friends, as she calls them is with her.—She ap­pears, I said, to have something of consequence to relate to Miss Smithson.—Nonsense,’ replied Miss Mar­tin, ‘she saw her last night, and she only behaves in this way to give herself an air to to you of being very clever, and very fond of her friend. As to what she has to tell her, I'll lay you a wager I know it beforehand; she told me be­fore you came a great deal about it, and her father would be very angry with her if he knew she told.’

I think, Emily, as you re­present her, Miss Martin has a very blunt, odd manner.

Oh yes, Mamma, she used very odd expressions, and I thought spoke strangely. She told me, then, that Miss Darn­ford was repeating a conversation which had passed before her be­tween her father and a gentle­man on some business, about which they had quarrelled. I was quite shocked to think she should ever mention what had passed in her father's house! By this time the story was ended, and the ladies joined us, Miss Darnford saying, ‘Be sure you don't mention it, Papa would be very angry if he should [Page 155] hear of it.’ They then walked with us, and Miss Darnford be­gan to ask me questions, how I employed myself, whether I learned music and dancing, and whenever I answered, I saw she looked at Miss Smithson, and they both seemed ready to laugh, which confused me very much. At last Miss Darnford said, ‘So you've no governess, and your Mamma teaches you herself; well that is very odd!’ I asked her "Why?" and she said, ‘Oh, I don't know, only I hear she goes on quite different from the common way, and that you and your sisters are to be vastly clever!’—Here both the ladies laughed, and Miss Smith­son said, ‘Well, thank my stars, my Mamma has no such whims—she does not trouble her [Page 156] head much about us; why they say, Miss Wyndham, that you never go out without your Mamma—that you are employed all day with her—and that she makes you tell her every thing you know.’ I found by this time, Mamma, that these young people were not well educated, nor very ami­able, so I said very coolly, ‘You are mis-informed, my mother is incapable of whims, she is all goodness, I am never hap­py but when I am with her; and as to telling her all I know, I never knew any thing with which she is not acquainted.—What,’ said Miss Darn­ford, ‘do you tell her the se­crets your friends trust you with?—I told her, I was too young to be entrusted with [Page 157] secrets of any importance, and that I had no particular friends out of my own family.—How, no friends!’ said Miss Darnford, adding in an af­fected tone, ‘poor thing! How unhappy you must be! Oh, I pity you, since you never knew the delight of perfect con­fidence.’—"Pardon me," I said, ‘I talk with perfect con­fidence to my mother!—Oh, said she, that is im­possible.’ And here, Mamma, the conversation was stopped by our being called into the house. But will you explain to me why these young ladies behaved so strangely?

I can do that easily, but it will take up some time, since al­most [Page 158] every word they spoke con­tained some false principle. I knew something of the charac­ter of Miss Darnford, and had you been a year younger, or your principles less fixed, I should not have permitted you to walk with them. In the first part of her behaviour to her friend, (a name abused by such an applica­tion) Miss Darnford showed great want of good-breeding—for politeness forbids us, if ever so much attached, to single out the object of our affections, as the sole object of our attention in any party; even if we are wi [...]h two people whom we love in differ­ent degrees, we are not permit­ted to mortify that person we love least, by excessive marks of attachment to the person we love most; a real friendship needs [Page 159] not these constant testimonies of love, it trusts in its friend, and believes her incapable of miscon­struing our attention to others. We ought, then, never to l [...]t any person have reason to believe they are in our way, or that we wish their absence, because both humanity and politeness forbid us to mortify any person so se­verely, who certainly has not deserved it of us.

I understand you, Mamma, and am quite of your opinion.

In the next place you may ob­serve in Miss Darnford, an in­stance of that hateful exaggera­tion, against which I have so of­ten warned you. At thirteen (Miss Darnford's age) it is not [Page 160] possible that the character should be sufficiently formed, the under­standing enough enlightened, to admit of our choosing a real friend. At that age, in general, the imagination has most power. A fine face, an interesting figure, are recommendations sufficiently powerful to win the heart. Some young people are brought up, particularly at schools, with the idea that they must form an inti­macy with some one; thus they select the first person who pleases their fancy, her only recommen­dation, perhaps, what they call being very good-natured; they tell her all they know; they de­tach themselves from their family; its secrets if they can learn them, are divulged; a thousand ill con­sequences follow, of which you will one day, my dear Emily, be [Page 161] more sensible than I can make you now. When you shall be of age to judge, do not suppose I shall object to your forming a strict intimacy with any one, whom you shall then believe wor­thy of your esteem—at present I hope your mother is your friend.

Oh, the best, the dearest of my friends—she must always be so!

You must have seen in Miss Darnford enough to disgust you with that ridiculous affectation of friendship which at her age cannot exist. Young people are too apt to deceive themselves on this point; they find the deceit at last, and the next person they see at all agreeable, supplies the place of the discarded friend; they have chosen lightly, again [Page 162] are deceived, and again change their connexion. Thus they con­tract a habit of sickleness and ca­price; they learn to exaggerate their feelings, the most danger­ous of all errors. They never con­sult their reason, never ask them­selves whether they really love her whom they call their friend, whether they are capable of pain­ful sacrifices for her sake, whe­ther they really esteem her cha­racter. These are the only proofs of real friendship, and judge, then, whether false intimacy and confidence are worthy of the name.

Oh, surely not! Besides, what becomes of the discarded friend, she must think herself very ill treated.

Certainly; she did not, per­haps, [Page 163] seek, the connexion, it was forced upon her; if she is un­generous, finding herself thus dismissed, she believes herself at liberty to repeat all that has been said to her. At least she makes the young person ridiculous, and if, like Miss Darnford, she has dared to disclose the affairs of her family, think what dreadful consequences may ensue. How many quarrels, how much ha­tred, how many horrid events have flowed from these ill judg­ed connexions! If, fearing these, a young person acts more pru­dently, and does not discard the friend she no longer loves, think what misery she has proposed for herself, to live in habits of inti­macy which she dares not break, with a person she has no regard for, whom, perhaps, her better [Page 164] judgment even obliges her to despise! if the same lightness and inconstancy be carried to a more advanced age (as it fre­quently is) when people have af­fairs of their own, think what mischief it must do!

I am convinced of the neces­sity of choosing a friend with at­tention and caution, and I thank you, Mamma, a thousand times for saving me from this false sen­sibility.

I think you need no caution to warn you against ever repeating any thing you hear in your fa­ther's house. A child whose lips are not sealed respecting all that reaches her of family affairs and opinions, is the most dangerous [Page 165] enemy of her connexions: she is unsuspected, no one believes her capable of so great an im­prudence or so black a treachery, and thus to do much evil is put into her power. As to what the young ladies said of me and my pl [...] of education, you have sense enough to pity it, as arising only from that thoughtless folly which very often induces weak minds to form a hasty decision on what they cannot comprehend.

Atleast, Mamma, I shall draw one advantage from this visit. I shall learn that it is my best and safest way always to tell you all that appears strange to me, and so to preserve myself from the bad effects of ill example.

Such an observation does you [Page 166] credit, my dear; to draw the best instruction we can from any event is always wise and good. Do not tell what has passed [...]to Helen and Maria, they are too young to understand it. Tell them only that you walked in the garden, and that you did not much like your visit.

In regular attendance on their several studies, the Wyndhams passed the summer; however, for the first time, they saw the approach of winter without re­gret, as the oculist, whose ad­vice they had taken, gave them hopes that by that time he should be able to perform an operation on Helen's eyes, which would, if any thing could, restore her to sight. We may judge with what extreme anxiety the whole family awaited this important period; [Page 167] they took care not to inform Helen of their hopes, left they should be disappointed, and she should be more dejected than be­fore. The autumn they spent very agreeably, enjoying the set­tled serenity of the weather and the different scenes of harvest and fruit-gathering, in all of which the children were permit­ted to assist. At the end of October the whole family went to London, and in a week after that, Helen was to submit to the decisive operation, from which they all hoped so much. Her mother, with infinite feel­ing and tenderness, prepared her for it, and received her promise to sit patiently and quietly. The day arrived, and the anxious fa­mily assembled to witness the event, Charlotte Neville and Ma­ria [Page 168] excepted, whose vivacity they feared would interrupt the sur­geon. Mrs. Wyndham, alike unable to fee the operation, or to quit the room, retired to one end of it, trembling, pale, her hands and her heart lifted up to God, but concealing her face on the shoulder of Arthur, whose arms were thrown round his mother, while his tears fell fast on her cheek. Emily, struggling with the extreme agitation of her mind, but by a strong effort com­posed, knelt with her eyes fixed on Helen, and one of her arms round her waist, while the other hand held both the hands of Helen. It is not possible to de­scribe the conflicting emotions which were visible on her coun­tenance; hope, fear, tenderness, and devotion, were mingled in [Page 169] her eyes, which were now raised to Heaven, now fixed on her sis­ter, and at intervals seeking to penetrate the thoughts of the operator. Mr. Wyndham stood on the other side of Helen, ex­horting her to have courage, yet feeling on his heart every touch of the instrument which the skil­ful and tender oculist applied to the eyes of the patient, quiet Helen; behind whose chair stood two female servants; hardly da­red they breathe, le [...]t they should interrupt or discompose the pa­tient or the surgeon. In about ten minutes Helen gave a faint shrick, and exclaimed— ‘Ah, my God! What is this! Do I see!’—At this exclamation Mrs. Wyndham rose suddenly, but unable to endure her sensa­tions, she fainted. Mr. Wynd­ham [Page 170] by a sign, requested Emily not to quit her sister, and ran to support his wife, whom, with Arthur's assistance, they con­veyed out of the room. Emily, her complexion changing every instant from white to crimson, the tears streaming down her cheeks, could no longer suppress her anxiety.—"Oh, Sir," she said, "does she see!"—"Hush," replied the surgeon, and Emily was again silent. Helen ex­claimed in broken words, but the surgeon having finished the operation, with the help of the servants covered her eyes, and [...]o [...]bade them to remove the ban­dage, as every thing depended on her not being suffered to use her eyes.

To use her eyes! Does she then see?

Yes, I am sure of it. But, my good yood young lady, you are too much disturbed.

Miss Emily, don't cry so, pray don't.

Ah, this is Emily who weeps so! Do not my dear Emily; I shall see in time. I had such an odd thought just now, I seemed to feel something with my eyes.

Just then Mr. Wyndham re­turned. Emily rising, threw her­self into his arms. ‘Ah, my dear Father, she whispered, Helen will see; she has seen! But my mother,—Go to your mother, my dear,’ said Mr. Wyndham, ‘she is b [...]ter, but unable to return hither; compose yourself, and prevail on her to be composed.’

[Page 172] Emily then flew to her mo­ther, she told her what had pass­ed, and in about ten minutes they were both composed enough to return to Helen, whom they found lying on her own bed, with all the windows closed.—The surgeon ordered that she should be kept in darkness some days, and light be admitted only by degrees: he bestowed on Emily the highest praises, for the united sensibility and [...]ti­tude she had shown. "This," said he, ‘is true sensibility; in the course of my practice, I witness so much affectation, so much exaggerated feeling; I see people unable to attend their nearest connexions when it is absolutely necessary; run­ing away from scenes of pain and inconvenience, with so much selfishness, as quite sick­ens [Page 173] me sometimes of sensibility. But you, my dear Miss Wynd­ham, have reconciled me to it, since I perceive you make it assistant to, not destructive of your duties. Such scenes as that of to-day seldom oc­cur: nothing could be more trying, and it might very well have happened that a delicate frame had sunk under the ex­ertions of a strong mind.—What I principally allude to, is the common practice of people, who run from the sick [...] of those whom they ought [...] sooth and comfort, because, truly, they cannot bear to see them suffer!—That, said Mrs. Wyndham, is exactly what I have always warned Emily against. True sensibility is active and useful; fal [...] [...]nderness enervates the [Page 174] mind, and renders its best wishes unavailing.’

In the course of a few days, light was gradually admitted in­to the apartments of Helen, and she was suffered to see those dear friends to whom she owed so much. But no description can do justice to the circumstances of their meeting, nor can any idea be given of the delight with which she gazed on the counte­nances of her mother and sister. By degrees she became familiar with the objects about her, which at first she knew not how to avoid in walking across the room; nor was it for some time she could enjoy the beauties of nature, scarcely understanding the meaning of her own sensa­tions. By degrees, however, her mind became more composed, and the sight of the [...] [Page 175] stars, the clouds, a river, or a flower, were to her a source of delight for hours; her genius expanded, and her mind was so shuck by these objects, at once so new and so interesting, that every one observed her thoughts were more sublime, and her lan­guage more expressive than those of other people. Even the sin­gularity of her expressions, the eagerness of her gestures, were interesting.

Restoration of her sight com­pleted the happiness of her amia­ble family; when her eyes were sufficiently strengthened to ad­ [...]t of it, she learned rapidly to write and read; and for painting, she discovered a genius so re­markable, as induced her father to give her the best masters. In both portraits and landscapes she succeeded wonderfully. At­tached [Page 176] with enthusiasm to her parents and sisters, she never for­got their cares in her helpess state. If they were sick, she de­voted herself to them, saying fre­quently, ‘Oh, can I ever repay your attention to me when I was blind!’

Emily remained the same ex­cellent character. She attended entirely to the education of Char­lotte Neville, who became all she could wish her. Arthur and Maria in the same manner ful­filled the wishes of their parents. Prosperity and peace to the end of their lives attend this amiable family, who were constantly employed in the performance of their several duties, and whose goodness was recompensed by as much felicity as this life is ca­pable of receiving.